Page 21 of Go Back to December

Finally, the trifecta of terror: I’m cornered in this hell with Baz.

The temperature’s dropped, the stale smell of cold air congests my nose, and I struggle to keep a clear head. It’s so quiet in this dark back stairwell; the hiss of train brakes from the platform below reverberates, teasing me about the promise of safety.

If Baz and I can work together, we might get away without getting hurt. A challenge, since he’s staring at Twitchy Leather Jacket with specific plans to tear his throat out.

I can’t let him alpha-fuck this into an escalation. Craig’s given me plenty of self-defense instruction, and the first tenet in these situations is to keep everyone calm.

“We don’t want any trouble,” I say. “We only want to get on the train.”

“Together,” Baz rasps. Like a territorial, muscle-brained fuckwit.

Twitchy flashes a smile that’s missing its canine. His gaze moves to Baz, takes in his coat and the bulge the wallet makes in his side pocket.

In a jerking motion, the guy tilts his head to me. “I don’t like how he speaks to you.”

The tweaker’s observation on toxic masculinity doesn’t win me over as he laughs and swerves, brandishing the long knife.

Baz evaluates this performance, searching for leverage, which is a terrible idea. They’re both standing precariously close to the stairs, and the knife is precariously close to Baz.

At the catch of my breath, Baz glances at me, and steps back from the ledge.

With the knife, Twitchy backs Baz and me into the shadowed corner of the landing. The way his gaze lingers on Baz’s coat is a warning light that whatever he’s doing is less about survival and more about control, and if we play into his charade, we might get out of this.

Baz hasn’t received the memo. He’s holding his body in full guard-dog posture, his gloved hands folded into fists. While my reptilian brain relishes the power those knuckles could deliver, it’s too dangerous to provoke this creep.

“Phones, wallet, purse,” Twitchy taunts.

As I shakily toss my bag at his feet, I’m struggling to summon much empathy for this asshole. Addiction may be to blame for Twitchy’s poor life choices, but opportunistic crime is just another form of hustling, and I am all played out tonight.

His stare doesn’t waver from Baz as he rasps, “Give me that coat too.”

Baz hesitates until I berate him with a glare. He removes the coat with a force barely shy of violence. Twitchy studies it, makes a face at the length. In a demonstration of the knife’s sharpness and his skill—despite his compromised state—he removes the bottom half of Baz’s coat in three sharp cuts.

With Twitchy’s attention on the tailoring exercise, Baz inches away smoothly. For the second time tonight, I note the command he has over his body, and how his suit jacket contours to the broad muscles of his shoulders. If Twitchy didn’t have a knife, Baz would crack him like an egg. And I’d enjoy it.

Baz creeps subtly to the side, positioning me closer to the stairs.

“Run when you get the chance,” he murmurs.

“Can’t risk it.”

The tweaker swerves closer; the hand gripping the knife trembles like Baz’s shoulders as he shivers in the cold station.

“You’re going to run,” Baz insists.

It’s not an option. As long as Twitchy has the knife, we’re both at risk.

“We work together, we get out of this. Just follow my lead and play along.”

Twitchy’s glazed eyes narrow on us.

“That’s everything.” I work to keep my words steady. “You can go, and we won’t follow you. We won’t move from this spot.”

The smirk on the tweaker’s face hardens. “There’s only one way to make sure.”

He lunges with the knife.

Baz yanks me out of the way just in time, circling us back toward the end of the landing.